The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray
by xNo.Life.Queenx
Summary: Princess Sorcha Baratheon knows she must devote her life to defending her throne. Her home is filled with daggers for her back and worse, her lover is trying to usurp her rule. On top of it all her country is bankrupt and plagued by civil war. Now she must transform from a Stag to a Mockingbird to keep herself alive and become the Queen of War in the process.
1. Brat Princess

The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray.

Chapter 1

"Joffrey, you're being an idiot," Sorcha deadpanned. She flicked her black hair out of her face to give the King a more stern expression.

Joffrey sat more fully in his throne and banged a fist against the arm rest. "You cannot speak to your king like that," he responded harshly.

"I speak to you in that manner because I do not wish to see you die!" Sorcha's eyes began to brim with tears. "Your guard obeys but they do not love you like I do, little brother."

"What will the people think if I allow a girl into my personal guard?" The Child King sat back in his chair and fixed a frown on his face. "They will think me weak."

"They already tried to kill you," Sorcha pointed out.

"Guards!" Joffrey called, "Find Maghnus and have him executed."

"NO!" Sorcha cried, "Why are you doing this to me, little brother?"

"I will not tolerate your disobedience, Sister. And you will refer to me as 'your grace,' I am your King now."

"Don't you remember our childhood, how I protected you? From _everyone?_" Sorcha's blue eyes were clouded with tears as the blacksmith's son was brought before her.

"What is the meaning of this, Sorcha?" Maghnus questioned.

The slender woman's armor chattered as she made her way across the hall. She tore her love from her brother's guards and held him closely. "Your Grace, please, have mercy. I only wished to protect you," Sorcha pleaded.

"That's better but I think you need an extra reminder that your brother is now King," Joffrey sneered, "Guards, finish the job."

"Thank you so much for all that you have shown me, Maghnus. I will never forget you." Sorcha placed a passionate kiss upon the prisoner's lips. Her gaze never wavered from his eyes as he was forced to his knees.

"I curse you," Maghnus spat at Joffrey as a cold sword was placed against his neck. The King sat forward in his chair as the weapon was raised.

"Well, that was a good show, right sis?" Joffrey teased eagerly. Excitement lay plain across his face and he clenched his hands in his lap as if he were fighting to stay still.

_Sister no more.._. "Very entertaining, Your Grace," Sorcha replied in a hollow tone. Her eyes burned with murder as she locked gazes with the King. _By winter's first snow, I will claim my rightful place upon the iron throne. As the _only_ true Baratheon in this household._

_* * * * 3 Months Later* * * * * *_

"What are you doing?" Jamie Lannister questioned as he rounded a corner and came face to face with his niece.

"Enjoying the fact that I am not inbred, Stumpy," Sorcha replied coolly.

"What have I done to warrant such a tone?" Jamie responded. He glanced about to make sure they were not overheard and drew closer to the young woman. "You know better than to speak of that in public."

"We are alone, that much I can assure you. As for what you did to _warrant such a tone_- it varies from day to day. I guess I could begin with the fact that you are very selfish," Sorcha stated imperiously. She cast a fiery glance over her shoulder before leaning on the ledge of a window in the castle wall.

"Selfish? I lost a hand for the sake of our King."

"I should be the queen, as the only true heir to the throne; but alas, I am only a mere woman. However, if you admitted to..._whatever you two call it,_ the whole kingdom will be saved from the short and bloody rule of another mad king."

"We would be beheaded," Jamie scoffed.

"No, I would be the queen. Do you have any idea what I would say should the subject arise?"

"Why don't you enlighten me."

"Fine, I will. I would say hell no, to begin with, then I would bestow gifts upon the lower classes to earn their affections. Life would be better for everyone and you and mom can live out your days happily ever after," Sorcha explained, "But we both know that my mother is too cowardly to own up to the truth. Even if there is a good chance her own son will kill her."

"You were the one who gave up the throne, or were you too young to remember?" Jamie pointed out.

"I passed the throne to my little brother," Sorcha deadpanned, "before he died and that monster rose from the ashes."

Jamie sighed and ran idle fingers over the nasty wound at the end of his wrist. Without another word he turned and made his way down the hall and to the Queen's chambers where he would spend the rest of the evening.

"You should show more respect for your elders," Tywin's gruff voice sounded from the shadows.

Sorcha nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her grandfather's voice. "Fancy meeting you here," she greeted, smiling despite herself. She stretched out her arms and welcomed a warm hug from her father figure.

"How long have you known about your mother and her brother?" he questioned seriously. Tywin held the girl at arm's length and inspected her dismal appearance. Her hair was a mess and she still wore the smudged tunic that had sat beneath her armor.

"Since the minute Joffrey came out of the womb kicking and screaming and I saw the look on Uncle Jamie's face," Sorcha's voice began to crack with sorrow, "That day was so happy for me. I thought that I would never be alone again now that I had a little brother."

"You shouldn't hold the incident with the blacksmith's boy against him," Tywin spoke gently.

"I don't. I hold his cruel treatment of his family, poeople, and especially our mother against him." Sorcha's jaw clenched and unclenched as she considered her next words. "He could show a little gratitude considering all she has given us."

"And you are a better daughter than she deserves," Tywin complimented guardedly.

"So why are you here?"

"Joffrey intends to marry you to The Hound."

A harsh silence fell between the two while Sorcha tried to corral her outrage. "Things have been over between The Hound and I for some time. You cannot allow this!"

Tywin raised a brow. "You have not sullied your honor, have you?"

"I wouldn't dare incur your wrath," Sorcha lied.

"Good. Don't worry, my dear, I will not let this grievous plot continue any further. But you still have to marry, little Sorcha. If we wait any longer you may never find a husband."

"You know I despise the notion."

"Do you think _I_ married for love?"

"I know you didn't, brave Tywin. Not all of us are so strong," Sorcha sighed, "Please don't force this."

"You are strong enough to handle anything that comes across your path. Sorcha Baratheon, you are more of a Lannister than any of my children."

0 * 0 * 0 * 0 * 0 *

Sorcha slipped through King's Landing on cat's feet. She wove through the crowd without so much of a hint of recognition-a smart move considering the Lannister's had fallen out of grace in the public eye. Her heart squeezed as she continued past the smithy where she would have been headed had her brother not taken Maghnus from her. _I will take his head myself for that one._

The neighborhood shifted as the buildings became more dilapidated. Nobles and people of birth skulked in deep cowls while prostitutes and merchants displayed their wares freely. Sorcha crinkled her nose when she passed an alley that especially reeked of piss and vomit. Sometimes she caught sight of a self employed prostitute making her living in squalor and filth.

A grand hall caught her attention as she moved through the shadows. She slipped around back to be bombarded by the sounds of passionate love making, even though most of it sounded fake. She paused when she found a quiet window and peeked in to find an empty room beyond. With a coy grin Sorcha hefted herself over the ledge and rummaged quickly through the dresser. She changed out of her own clothes once she had found a suitable outfit and walked confidently into the hall.

"That must be the new girl, Lord Baelish said she would arrive today," one prostitute muttered to her client as she walked him to the exit.

Sorcha turned her face so the visiting noble would not recognize her. She was seldom seen about the castle and her mother had been careful to mask as much as she could from the common folk. A hot sickly feeling stuck in her throat as her mother's tormented face flashed before her eyes. Just one more reason why Sorcha should claim the throne for herself.

After getting lost two or three times Sorcha finally arrived at the personal chambers of Petyr Baelish. She knocked hesitantly and took a step back to wait for an answer. Admittedly, she felt like a fool dressed in a whore's fine clothes. She hoped that the sly man would not get the wrong idea.

"Ah, the eldest Baratheon. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Littlefinger greeted warmly. He graced the woman with a charming smile before motioning her inside.

"Half your guards are preoccupied with your wares. You aren't running a tight ship these days. Perhaps you are cracking under pressure?" Sorcha lead with intimidation.

"Ah, but that is none of your concern. Does your mother know you are here, past your bedtime, in my chambers, wearing _those _clothes?" Petyr's eyes danced in the light of his fireplace.

"Joffrey would chop off your head if anyone in the court knew; don't even try to use that as leverage against me."

"Touche."

"I've always admired that silver tongue of yours and I have need of it now," Sorcha lead on cautiously. What she was about to lay down was a very delicate subject indeed.

"I'm listening," Littlefinger replied. A smug smirk crossed his lips as he took calculated strides back to his desk and seated himself upon the throne of the underworld.

"I know that you are restless and that you yearn for power. How would you like to have a little more?" Sorcha grinned and her heart fluttered with excitement. She had always loved the struggle of plots that went along with royal life. To her, it was the highest form of entertainment.

"What do you propose?" Lord Baelish threw caution to the winds. His instincts told him to seize the opportunity before it slipped though his fingers yet his experience schooled his reaction. He settled on folding his hands in his lap and waiting patiently for the girl to continue.

Sorcha produced a fine piece of parchment paper that had been folded intricately and stamped multiple times with her personal emblem. "Get this letter to the Stormborn girl and begin to circulate rumors that detail my kindness and generosity. Make sure the people love me in two weeks time."

"And what do I get in return?" Littlefinger asked coldly.

"Highgarden will be yours and you can marry any eligible woman of your choosing. High born, low born, barren, or hideous, whatever it is you like. Just do me the courtesy of naming an heir before you die if you fail to produce one."

"You plan to be queen!" Baelish breathed in disbelief, "This is a dangerous game you are playing, girl."

"I admire your concern for the royal family, Lord Baelish. That is why we appointed a new Master of Coin this morning," Sorcha replied smartly.

"I don't understand, my Lady. You come seeking a favor and work against me at the same time." Littlefinger's eyes were like fire yet his countenance was cool and reserved. He had to fight the urge to kill the arrogant Lannister where she stood; she was too far away from home for anyone to hear her scream.

"Oh, I'm not working against you," Sorcha spoke sweetly, "Not yet, anyway. Besides, you were so _adamant_ that my safety has not been properly looked after. My mother couldn't agree more that she had been taking too long to choose a new personal guard for me."

Petyr choked on vomit as her cynical tone led him to an inevitable conclusion. He quickly grabbed a goblet of wine and faced the fire to hide his ire.

"In fact, she was so impressed that she gave the position to you!"

"Enough!" Baelish demanded. He fought to keep his composure while he processed this turn of events. He had had a plan and this little Lannister bitch had thoroughly ruined it. Her personal guard...the position was laughable. He would be the disgrace of the court!

"Don't be so morose," Sorcha soothed, "I just need to make sure you don't turn on me. After all is said and done your reward will be quite handsome."

"I would like Winterfell as well, my Lady."

Sorcha laughed and poured herself a glass of wine. "A wise man once said that you would let this country burn to the ground if you could be the ruler of the ashes." She tipped her glass to the enraged Littlefinger. "You can also burn. Please make a point of remembering that while you are packing your things."

"I have a business to run," Petyr argued.

"I'm going to take care of that. You're slacking off, anyway. There are tough times ahead and the city will be very much in need of our services."

"Our? Little Sorcha, this is _my_ empire. I built it from the ground up," Baelish warned.

"Such a sad story, the little mockingbird who got his wings clipped. He would sit outside the queen's window all day and sing his songs. Eventually she grew tired of him and sent him away to a dark and terrible place where he could never reach his full potential. The princess mourned for him but knew her mother would never set him free. So, she decided to smuggle him away to a place where he could truly flourish," Sorcha began sarcastically, twirling the goblet of wine idly in her fingers.

"In the dead of night she stole into the dungeon and rescued the poor thing from his cage. She clipped his wings and kept him with her constantly for over a fortnight. One day when the princess was out riding the mockingbird decided he had had enough. He struggled from her skirts and stretched his wings in joy."

Lord Baelish hated the smug look on Sorcha's face. He had known the girl to be kind and even a bit naiive but her mother's influence had never shown through quite like it did now.

"In his impatience the mockingbird had forgotten that he could not fly. And so he fell into a puddle where he drowned like a pigeon. The end."

"That is a beautiful story, Princess, but you've forgotten one thing," Lord Baelish responded, a look of fierce determination in his eyes, "Mockingbirds are far more clever than that."

"I hope so," Sorcha laughed, "I'll be back for you in a few hours."

A/N: There is no way little finger will take that one lying down. Let the games begin!


	2. Love Lost

Sorry for the long update wait, my first and appreciated follower BSG75. Shit hit the fan and it took a minute to clean it all off.

The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray

Chapter 2: Love lost

Petyr watched a small stage intently while the serving maids extinguished all but two torches. Sorcha had asked him to escort her to a seedy tavern not far from his brothel under the guise of a whore.

"Go have a seat in the front. This performance is for you," she ordered once they were inside. Lord Baelish had followed her instructions and now he grew impatient as the time crept by.

His interest was peaked when flames encircled the stage and two female acrobats twisted onto view. The one on the left was unmistakably the princess. The pattern she had painted on her face was fierce, intimidating even. Tribal markings ran along the sharp angles of her cheeks in mysterious black. She wore a simple unfinished leather strip across her bosom and glittering strands of beads barely veiled her nether parts.

Petyr couldn't help but gasp along with the crowd. Before he could recover his wits Sorcha had produced a heavy iron chain with a cloth ball at the end. She lifted it and banged it once upon the stage-Petyr could hear the heavy thud of iron behind the rags. Her partner stepped forward and sent two more bone chilling echoes though the room.

The fire burned out upon the stage and cast an impenetrable darkness across the tavern. Then all was illuminated when two large streams of fire shot from the acrobats' mouths and set a bundle of wood on fire. Sitting atop was an ornate bronze bowl of water.

The women lit their weapons and began a dance so fluid and precise that it caused Petyr to lean forward in astonishment. They bobbed and weaved with such precision and grace that his head snapped around just to keep up.

Then the acrobats threw their weapons into the air and stood on their hands. They caught the massive chains around their ankles-then they began to attack. Sorcha encircled her partner's thigh with her chain and sent her spinning down into a defensive position. The acrobat quickly recovered her instrument and began to ward off Sorcha's wild attacks.

Sorcha was thrown off balance and her partner knocked one flaming ball into the fire. A drum thrummed from behind the curtains and directed the women back into their starting positions.

"One out!" the barkeep called as he took center stage. A boy came out and untethered the steaming ball from Sorcha's chain as the crowd cheered and whistled.

Silence fell when the drums stopped and the women began their dance once again. Sorcha's eyes were wild and there was a ferocity in her movements that had not been there before. Petyr's heart raced and he clenched his hands in his lap; he was practically panting from exhilaration.

The women moved like snakes as they wove tight circles around each other. They were in a frenzy with the effort to claim victory. Sorcha's opponent cried out sharply when she took a blow to the hip. The smell of burnt flesh reached Petyr's nostrils as his eyes greedily devoured the scene.

Minutes passed before Sorcha wrapped her chain around the two ends of her opponent's. The flaming balls swung around her shoulder and flew towards Sorcha's back, causing princess to thrust herself forward and grunt with the effort of stopping their momentum. Petyr held his breath as the flames licked her skin, hovering for what seemed like hours.

Then Sorcha was back in control. She let out a fierce battle cry as she swung the flames back around and thrust them deep into the bowl of water. Bronze glittered as the contents rained down over the tavern. The charred sticks broke and sent embers flying while the bowl landed noisily in the back of the tavern.

"You bitch!" Sorcha's opponent roared, leaping forward to engage the princess once again.

"The match is over, Vivien wins!" The owner screamed, though it did nothing to stop the fight that had broken out on stage.

The acrobat rushed Sorcha and lifted her high into the air. When her lithe body came crashing to the stage the princess took the acrobat with her. The other woman twisted her fist into the princess' hair and ripped the wig right off her head, releasing the waterfall of black curls underneath. Sorcha screamed in outrage and tore the wig off her partner's head in retaliation. Petyr recognized the straight red hair as one of his whores.

The Hound elicited screams as he burst onto the stage in full armor.

"What is going on here?" Sandor roared, though it didn't give the women pause. He sighed and shook his head, watching the two squabble as if he wasn't quite sure if he should be amused or annoyed.

"Come on girls, that's enough," he sighed, dragging the acrobats off stage by the hair and firmly ending the spectacle.

As the curtain closed Petyr came to a shocking realization-he was aroused. Never before had he seen so much fire and determination from a woman, not even Catelyn. Those were always the two traits he admired in his lifelong crush and thought that no other woman could wield such a flame.

This day he discovered that one tiny princess could hold all the fires of hell-and more.

"How could you leave without saying goodbye?" Sorcha mumbled into the Hound's breastplate. Her arms were wrapped firmly around his torso and she was doing her best to crush the man to death.

"After how things ended?" Sandor replied. He removed himself from the princess' grasp and studied her face. He traced a still pink scar above Sorcha's eyebrow and fixed her with a stern expression. "Who did this to you?"

"Don't push me away and voice concerns at the same time, Sandor, it breaks my heart," Sorcha sucked in a deep breath to continue, "Don't you remember promising that we would always be close? I upheld my end."

"Well, it's easier for you-"

"No the hell it isn't! All you have to do is wait for me somewhere. I, on the other hand, have to sneak past my own guards, my mother's guard's, a network of spies, and the King's guard! Even after you ripped out my heart I would come _every night_ to go adventuring, because you will always be my most trusted and beloved friend."

The Hound growled and balled one hand into a fist. "Stop it! You already know my reasons."

Sorcha's eyes brimmed with tears. "If that is your will, I shall respect it."

"Am I interrupting something?" Petyr Baelish's voice deflated the tension like an elephant would a souffle.

"What are you doing here, snake?" Sandor responded angrily. He quickly moved in front of Sorcha to form a protective barrier. He knew what would happen if the late king's daughter was discovered playing a dangerous and violent sport, wearing and outfit that showed more than a common whore.

"Calm down, Sandor," Sorcha snapped, "Lord Baelish is my personal guard. Please do not insult him."

"It's quite alright, Princess, I doubt The Hound has put down his sword long enough to learn manners_,_" Petyr sniffed as he took Sorcha's arm.

The woman immediately recoiled and glared at both men. "You two are horrible!"

"Maybe, but he's worse," Sandor nodded at Petyr, "You've really lowered your standards, _Princess_."

"That title sounds like poison on your lips." Sorcha's voice quavered despite her defiant stance.

"Then why don't you kiss me?"

Sorcha's eyes hardened and she wadded her hands into the beads of her skirt. "I hate it when you act like this," Sorcha turned to Petyr and offered her arm.

Sensing her anger, Petyr delicately accepted the Princess and wrapped a soothing arm around her shoulders. Sorcha cast him a sideways glance but permitted the intimacy. "Do you mind if we spend the night in your quarters at the brothel?"

Petyr glanced over his shoulder one last time and smiled at Sandor's outraged expression. "Whatever you desire, my dear," he whispered comfortingly in Sorcha's ear before leading her out into the noisy night air.

The glowing sunlight warmed Sorcha back into consciousness. She kept her eyes closed as she let the golden beams cradle her, wondering why the servant hadn't woken her when she opened the curtains. Then the memories assaulted her along with a familiar throbbing in temples. _Too much wine.._she thought, her realization making the sunlight suddenly painful.

Movement on the other side of the bed startled her and drew her thoughts away from The Hound. She calmed when she remembered retiring to the brothel. Naturally, her only choice was to share a bed with Lord Baelish. A whore never knows when to shut up.

Petyr stirred without waking and wrapped a tan arm around Sorcha's waist. The blanket fell from around his shoulders and exposed a trim physique. Sorcha's mouth fell open as she struggled to remember the full events of the night but found only blackness.

_Why are we both naked? Oh gods, old and new!_ Sorcha dressed as quickly as she could but only found her stage costume. A strange sadness settled over her along with the fierce need to be alone. She felt as if Sandor had raised a mighty paw and clawed her heart out once again. It only got worse from there; now she found herself in the middle of a scandalous mess. She shuddered to think how Petyr would try to use the incident as leverage in a power play.

Sorcha took another look at Petyr Baelish's naked form and cringed inwardly. He was quite handsome, down to every last little detail, but it did not change the fact he was a cruel and treacherous man. A dark feeling pooled in Sorcha's gut as her full distrust for Petyr screamed to the front of her mind. _Why would he give himself up? Why would he after saving himself for all those years? For _her? Then a more shocking thought revealed its horror.

Sorcha clutched her stomach in fear and rushed back to the bed despite the gag at the back of her throat. She threw back the covers and sighed in relief. The telltale stain sat neatly on the edge of the bed; apparently Petyr was mindful about where he ejaculated.

"Princess? Why are you..." Petyr awoke and quickly came to the same conclusion. His eyes wasted no time in taking in the incriminating. For the first time in his life words failed him.

"What do you remember? Don't lie-I deserve the truth," Sorcha demanded.

"Nothing past our entry," Petyr whispered. He slid out from under the covers and quickly pulled a clean tunic over his head.

"I'll kill you myself if you breathe a word of this to anyone-for the rest of your life. Understand?"

"Are you afraid it will ruin your chances with that scarred dog?"

Sorcha's eyes blazed as she tore one of Petyr's tunics from his wardrobe. "I judge a man by his heart, though I do find Sandor attractive. You are forbidden to speak ill of him in my presence. If you do, I'll bend you over my knee and spank your bare ass. Try me if you have doubts; I'd be more than happy to oblige."

"What a Queen you will make," Petyr remarked. He was testing his boundaries to cover the turmoil that raged within. The events of the night before replayed themselves vividly before his eyes and stole his confidence.

"Are your rewards not satisfactory, Lord Baelish? Or would you prefer a fool to take the throne so you can keep striving to become puppet master?" Sorcha snapped, "A game in which Varys will always be your better, might I add."

Petyr deflated and averted his eyes to the ground. Sorcha caught that familiar glimmer that she had watched closely since she was a girl. It was his sadness, a heavy stone that he wore around his neck every moment of every day.

The Princess understood, she had her own stone from which she could never be freed. Seeing Petyr's weight take its toll pushed her over the edge. Tears bubbled up to the surface and spilled down her porcelain face in silence.

"Princess?" Petyr responded politely. He crossed the room in swift strides and moved to hold Sorcha's hand but she swatted him away.

"I don't need your coddling, Lord Baelish, you know I don't appreciate false gestures."

"You seemed more than content to let me hold you a little over two years ago," Petyr reminded. He remembered that night perfectly; he had been spying on a visiting noble when the Princess had barged in on him in a fit of tears.

"_What troubles you so, dear child?" Petyr asked smoothly, masking his surprise at her arrival._

"_Who are you spying on now?" Sorcha whispered back viciously, obviously lashing out in any way she could._

_Petyr pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently removed the tears from Sorcha's red cheeks. "Now, now, this won't do," he whispered and cradled her in one arm. He felt the Princess ease into his touch and smiled in the dark._

"_My heart is broken, thanks to this damnable curse of royal lineage. I'm not even going to be queen anymore yet my name still strips me of all joy," Sorcha lamented._

"_What are you talking about, dear princess?" Petyr urged as Sorcha buried her face in his chest, overcome by another bout of tears._

"_It's Sandor, he refuses to ask for my hand. He said my father would rather behead him than give his daughter away to a monster."_

"_He is right, you know. Your duties as a princess require you to marry into a prominent family," Petyr reminded._

"_But Sandor is everything I've ever wanted." Sorcha's voice was flat and hoarse, a sharp contrast to the whining Petyr received from his whores. "It infuriates me to no end that I cannot take what I want. It makes me feel imprisoned."_

"_Shhh, enough of this talk, Princess. It could get you in trouble."_

"_I don't care, I've given up. I'd rather die now than suffer many long years of this agony. I don't want to be sold off to some pig and have him rut at me every night, bare his children, perform for his friends like my mother does for her 'King.'"_

"_Your mother loves you enough not to pair you with a beast," Petyr placated. His ears strained to hear a faint conversation through the wall but found this interaction to be far more rewarding. Somewhere in the future he would have an ace up his sleeve, something that has saved his life multiple times before._

"_Anyone who would damn me to a life of constraint is a beast in my opinion," Sorcha stubbornly insisted._

"_My dear, you're looking at your situation all wrong."_

"_And you would tell me how to see?" Sorcha asked incredulously._

"_Well, all you see now is a cage. If you stopped fighting the bars long enough to inspect them, then you might just find a way to slip through." Petyr hoped the Princess couldn't feel his heart hammering in his ribcage. She had turned to face him and their noses were less than an inch apart. The lamplight highlighted her stunning prismatic eyes and lustrous dark curls and lent her an ethereal effect._

"_That was the wisest thing I have ever heard, Petyr Baelish." Sorcha leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on Petyr's cheek, the corner of her mouth touching his own. "Thank you."_

"_Get to bed, Princess," Petyr commanded numbly. He withdrew his arm from the Princess and gave her a little push. His face was a deathly pale-no woman had ever willingly touched her lips to his own. That wasn't saying much, he had only ever managed to trick one kiss from his beloved before she went off to marry a man she barely knew. The sensation was alien and bared a part of him he couldn't understand._

_He vowed to stay far away from the princess from this point forward. He needed to protect himself, protect the part of him that was meant only for Catelyn._

_A/N: I've made Sorcha the way she is so it sets the stage for chaos (a princess like that should never sit on the throne!) but sometimes I worry. I have only seen the T.V. rendition of the novels and I'm not familiar with all the fine nuances of Petyr and the rest of the characters that are found in the books. SO, if you spot any OOC or if Sorcha is something Petyr would despise, let me know so I can adjust. It will be extremely appreciated!_


	3. Child King

The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray

Chapter 3

Petyr had become somewhat withdrawn in the last five days. Sorcha mourned the loss of what little friendship they shared and lamented the cold facade that functioned as a wall between them. She had started letting him stray from her, though she also needed to conduct private affairs. Everything was in order for her to assume the throne-except the dunderhead that adorned it.

In truth, Sorcha greatly despised the task before her. Joffrey had been her whole world when she was growing up. They went hunting together, played pranks on the servants, crept into the kitchen for snacks and stayed up late to watch the court's night life. However, when Joffrey started to enter manhood he became more distant and wanted to push their antics too far. He wanted people to get hurt.

Princess Sorcha didn't mind a fair fight, but she never found it pleasurable to damage her peers for sport. The Lannister malice had never surfaced in her blood-though her mother did try her best to bring it around.

"Sister?" Joffrey called from over Sorcha's shoulder. She had just been dismissed from a small council meeting, though her role became increasingly more inert. What was the point of advising a King that would take no advice?

"Yes, Your Grace?" She replied casually, giving her brother a deep curtsey. She flashed her dimples, heart aching as she remembered how he used to be fascinated by them as an infant.

"Where is that rat?" Joffrey sneered, motioning rigidly for his guards to come to a stop.

Sorcha instantly knew to whom he was referring and corralled her anger. "You Grace, I grew tired of his company and dismissed him for a time."

"I heard that you went searching for the hound." Joffrey's eyes were like pale shards of ice, churning as if there was a hurricane behind them.

"Forgive me, your grace," Sorcha bowed, "I only wished to break his nose."

"Then what?" Joffrey countered.

"Your Grace?"

"Don't play stupid with me, sister, you forget how well I know you."

"I apologize, Your Grace. I do not know what I would do-maybe punch him some more."

"You are a liar." Joffrey played with the statement as if it were a succulent piece of ham. "Do you know what happens to liars, Sister?"

"They get sent to their room?" Sorcha offered hopefully, though she knew full well something bad was about to happen to her at the hands of someone she used to love more than life.

"Boris, show the Princess how the King handles a uncontrollable woman," Joffrey laughed. He slapped the arm of a particularly dirty looking Knight and the man flashed a set of decaying teeth.

"It'll me my pleasure, Yer Grace," Boris grunted in response and drew a small dagger. He smiled wickedly down at the Princess as he advanced on her.

Sorcha immediately retreated but was stayed by a call from Joffrey. He would kill her right now if she did not submit. _This isn't my brother... _

Sorcha shook with fear as rough hands grabbed her around the neck and lifted her onto the tips of her toes. Her clothes pulled tight around her as they were yanked back and ravaged under the sharp edge of Boris' knife.

"No, Joffrey! Make him stop! I'm your sister, don't you remember that?"

"It seems you have forgotten who is your king. I bet you'll listen the next time I give you orders," Joffrey remarked, surveying the scene with a pleased smile.

The cold air slapped against Sorcha's skin and caused all the little hairs to rise up. She struggled to cover herself but Boris merely held her in place, raking her over with a pleased smile. He took one hand and laid it hesitantly on her waist, afraid of offending his King. "May I, your grace?"

"You'll be doing me a favor if you marry her," Joffrey snorted, waving a hand to express his indifference. The Child King smirked deviously at Sorcha, holding her gaze.

"_Sorcha!"_ Circe's voice was strangled and high, her shoes clacking loudly on the stone floor as she struggled to hold her dress aloft.

"Mom!" Sorcha's eyes brimmed with tears of relief. She couldn't think of a way to repay her for this one.

"What are you doing, Joffrey?" Circe was like a tigress as she tore Boris away from Sorcha and hastily covered her nudity with a silk shawl. "This is your sister. You cannot allow some..._mongrel_ to taint her!"

"I am your King, Mother, I can let this mongrel taint _you_ if I want. Unless, of course, Uncle Jamie has beaten him to it," Joffrey taunted.

"Mother has always been faithful to her King, and now-" Sorhca was cut off when Circe clamped a cold hand against her mouth.

"Please, I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace," Circe smoothed. She bowed deeply and moved protectively in front of Sorcha, ready to flee if the situation became dire.

"Very well," Joffrey sighed, feeling uncomfortable under his mother's judgmental stare, "Take the bitch to her chambers and stay in yours for the rest of the evening. I don't want to see either of your faces until tomorrow."

Sorcha had never felt so happy to be clothed. Fury and indignation churned in her gut as she sat beside her mother and wrapped a comforting arm around her.

"That _thing _is not Joffrey," the Princess sneered, "I can no longer think of him as my brother."

"Ever since he became king," Circe lamented.

"I promise not to get beheaded if you will promise me the same thing," Sorcha joked, her lips quirking up in a bitter smile.

"As much as I would like to humor you, I can't." Circe picked at her nails and fretted over a strand of hair. Sorcha could tell what she was thinking; Joffrey wasn't the only King in town out for their blood.

"Why don't you take comfort in Jamie for a while? I'll be okay here," Sorcha offered, giving Circe's arm a little pat.

"No, I can't let anything happen to you," Circe defended. She took Sorcha in her arms and scrutinized her every detail, brushing a fresh scar in particular. "Not again."

"You can't protect me from Joffrey and he is the only danger here. Varys has always nurtured me and Petyr is firmly under my control."

"Why wasn't he with you?"

Sorcha shrugged. "I got sick of looking at him."

Circe cast a sideways glance and allowed a true laugh to roll from her cherry red lips. "You are truly my daughter."

"See? Humor feels good, now go soothe your heart. I'm sick of looking at _your_ sad frown, Mother."

Circe regarded Sorcha with a mix of pride and worry. "I love you."

"Mom, I will always love you. I only want what is best for you. I will take care of you, now that I am old enough. Just trust me and above all else, _remain loyal to me."_

Circe searched her daugher's eyes for answers and opened her mouth once, as if she was about to ask a question but thought better of it, and left the room without any further comment.

Sorcha let out the breath she was holding in as the door slammed shut and left her in contemplative solitude. She still felt the scum from Boris' hands and eyes on her body despite the cleansing she had gone through earlier. The incident left her shaken to the core. Boris could change her life forever if she became pregnant.

A furious knocking sounded on the barred door. "Princess? Let me in!"

It was Petyr, Sorcha would recognize his voice anywhere. With a sigh, she forced herself to her feet and catered to his request.

"I came as soon as I heard the news. Are you alright? Did Joffrey hurt you?" Petyr asked breathlessly. The dark pools of his eyes shimmered with concern and his brow was creased with worry.

Sorcha flicked her gaze across his body to see if he was feigning his mood. She was not disappointed; Petyr Baelish was genuinely concerned. _For her._ She had thought that the only living being he cared for was Catelyn, yet here he was, gentle fingers probing her body for signs of damage.

"Oh Petyr! There aren't words to describe being faced with rape or death," Sorcha cried and threw herself into Lord Baelish's arms. He simply held her, stunned, while she sobbed unabashedly. "In that moment, I viciously hoped that I was already with your child. I don't want to have ugly children with a monster of a father."

"Shhh," Petyr quieted the Princess, "You never know who is listening here."

"Varys doesn't give a damn, Petyr. He can't touch you as long as you're with me. Nobody can," Sorcha responded. She struggled to swallow against the frog in her throat and pulled back from her guard. It seemed like all the handkerchiefs in the world couldn't mop the moisture from her cheeks.

Petyr was also quite shaken. Sorcha's words kept echoing in his head like some sort of manic ghost; _He can't touch you as long as you're with me. Nobody can._ Lord Baelish knew that she had her guard down, perhaps for the first time in his presence. That little slip led to another-an almost protective undertone. _Nobody can._ Her words were final and affectionate. The only other woman who had ever felt the urge to shelter him was his Catelyn.

_No,_ Petyr thought suddenly, _not a woman. She gave me me up for Stark swine when it was time for the grand transition of life. Even when her betrothed died, she still chose his brother-a man she barely knew-over me._

"So, in turn, that unsettling fact has lead me to a delightful conclusion. Petyr? Are you even listening to me?" Sorcha blinked and ran a finger along his neatly trimmed beard.

"No, I wasn't. Please repeat that last?" Petyr asked, catching her hand in his own. He drew in a deep breath and summoned his court persona. He couldn't trust his true self to keep his lips sealed around the unusual young woman.

"You're impossible. Come sit down, if you wish." Sorcha motioned to Petyr's identical bed positioned directly across from her own. She flinched inwardly when she noticed the rope dangling between the two; she had been tying Lord Baelish to her at night to assure he didn't slip out. It was a necessary evil.

Petyr sighed and took in the disheveled Princess. He could see a large bruise beneath the thin gossamer of her gown that was just starting to turn purple. She was turned slightly away from him, granting him a full view of her back and the thin scab that had formed over a knife wound. "How bad does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?" Sorcha asked seriously, looking down at herself for the first time. "Oh, I've gotten worse at the flames," she shrugged, "It will be gone by the morning."

"I apologize for my absence. It will not happen again." Petyr looked down at his fingers and schooled his features. He knew damn well that no man in King's Landing could stand in Joffrey's path. Things wouldn't have gone any differently; but he would have been there there when Sorcha was most vulnerable. Today he missed a valuable opportunity to establish trust.

"Petyr! What has gotten into you? Every time I look over it appears that your head is among the stars."

Lord Baelish gave the Princess a withering glance. "Go on, I _am_ listening."

"I didn't say anything yet," Sorcha responded with pursed lips, "I know that what happened between us was a horrible mistake. I wish I could take it back; I know who you were saving yourself for. However, what is done cannot be undone. You need to move past that so we can come out of this on top."

Petyr remained silent for a moment and studied the Princess' every detail. Her black girls were glossy and unkempt and her determined eyes were lined with just a smudge of kohl, lending her an almost sultry look. That soft skin wasn't as pale as the rest of the Lannisters and it was marred by a fair amount of nicks and burn marks. On any other woman, Petyr might have found it ugly. "An easy task; there is nothing to move past."

"Pardon my language, but, don't bullshit a bullshitter. You've completely changed your facade." Sorcha crossed her arms and locked eyes with Lord Baelish, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"How long until your next cycle?"

Sorcha's face hardened and softened at the same time. She understood well that they were in hot water until there was proof that she wasn't with child.

"Two weeks." Sorcha paused to clear her throat and find something to fidget with. "It is highly unlikely."

"My girls really have jaded you," Petyr remarked idly.

"I'm sorry that I never really thanked you properly for all the nights you let Luce come out with me," Sorcha laughed, remembering her friend fondly, "I want to buy her from you before we part ways."

Petyr swallowed hard and produced a paper from his pocket. He paused a second to compose his face into a friendly smile and practiced his stage voice in his mind. "Actually, Princess, I would like to speak with you about my compensation."

Sorcha's sharp eyes glared daggers at the small document Petyr was unraveling. "You don't trust my word?"

"No more than you would trust mine," Lord Baelish countered, pulling himself up and handing the document to Princess Sorcha.

She scowled as she read each carefully written word. "What about the lands? The only subject you explicitly detail is your free choice in marriage." The whole thing reeked of another of his schemes. "Are you planning on forcing Catelyn's hand?"

"She is dead." Petyr's lips tightened and he cast his gaze downward, fretting over the angle of his mockingbird.

Lord Baelish's response was so abrupt that Sorcha instantly felt sorry that she had questioned him. She, too, knew the feeling of love lost; though not to the depth of Petyr's lifelong passion. She couldn't begin to fathom what that would be like.

"Fine," Sorcha finally agreed. She scribbled her name across the page, which had already been witnessed, and handed it back to her guard. "I've added that you cannot wed anyone in my immediate family."

Petyr smiled guardedly. "Of course. It goes without saying, Princess."


	4. Fade To Black

The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray

Chapter 4: Fade To Black

Sorcha frowned at the high ceiling as she waited for dawn to approach. She was sure that she had counted all the squares in the pattern twice now-there were 2,225, precisely. Sleep was not a welcome visitation this morning as she contemplated what the new day's horrors would be. Like her mother, she found herself reaching for the small pitcher of wine sitting on her nightstand.

The rough pull of rope on skin startled her and caused her to jerk her guard awake and incite a mental tirade of obscenities. "Go back to sleep," the princess muttered darkly as she grasped the wine and poured herself a glass.

"Does a princess ever need to rest?" Petyr's hoarse voice croaked over the distance between them. The brightening sky had yet to reach the lower portions of the gloom and made Sorcha struggle to make out his neatly trimmed beard.

"No, that's why her guard is supposed to sleep enough for two people," Sorcha quipped back and replaced her empty glass back on the nightstand. "Would you like some?"

"Yes, please," Petyr accepted. He watched the princess' movements and sighed deeply before starting to undo his binds. He could see her immediately stiffen and snap her head around to look at what he was doing. "How do you intend to hand that glass to me?"

Sorcha immediately understood the situation and undid the safety rope connecting them together. "I regret forcing you to live this way. However, growing up around you has taught me a few things."

"And here I was, hoping that we could improve upon our friendship. You would make a greater spy than any I currently employ," Petyr taunted.

"If there was any way to be certain of your loyalty, Petyr, I would accept your offer," Sorcha stated, dry humor evident in her tone, "but the circumstances remain."

"So tell me, Sorcha, how may I gain your trust?" Petyr retorted idly and downed his cup all at once. He made a smacking noise with his lips as he set the cup down, purposefully annoying the Princess.

"To be honest, Petyr, I think you already have more than you rightly deserve."

* * *

><p>Sorcha stared open-mouthed at the servant before her. "Repeat that," she ordered dryly, eyes staring wide and seeing only images within. Her gut churned as the high ceilings seemed to breathe and sway and an odd buzzing sound began to dominate the gold painted room.<p>

"Princess?" Petyr's cool hand gripping her bare shoulder brought Sorcha back to reality. The buzzing faded and the face of the servant became clear.

"What?" Sorcha croaked helplessly.

"Joffrey summons you to the gallows at once. You are to personally perform the execution of Sandor Clegane," Jocelyn repeated with more than a little concern in her voice.

"I must change into the proper attire," The Princess ordered, surety returning to her voice, "you are dismissed."

Sorcha turned and buried her face in Petyr's chest the moment she heard the heavy doors click shut. _Breathe in, and breathe out..., _she recited endlessly in an effort to stay calm, _Joffrey has ordered you to execute the only man you have ever come close to loving. You can deal with this. There is always an out._

Despite his better judgment, Petyr enfolded the Princess firmly in his arms. He delighted in the way her frame felt small against his own and how his hands soothed the delicate shake that wracked her body. _He _was the one she turned to now, Petyr realized with satisfaction, and it had been that way all along.

"So much for the Iron Princess," Sorcha laughed darkly, as if she could somehow sense his thoughts.

_Yes, the Iron Princess._ Sorcha had earned the nickname when Petyr was new in King's Landing. Nobles and peasants alike had murmured about the Baratheon heiress' strength of will and determination. Those close to the late King would swear that an army of demons couldn't break her spirit, even at three years of age.

The sly Baelish had always known better. By day, Sorcha would appear as required in the court, always careful to keep to herself; but the night was truly her time. Petyr would watch as she would skitter by his own hiding place and practically glow as she explored new territories. As time went by the Princess changed. She no longer danced right past Lord Baelish without a care in the world.

Instead, she would crawl right on in with the master of lies.

"_After he said, 'It is only a matter of time before her husband finds out.'"_

"_The other lord responded with, 'Damn the consequences! Neither of us wishes to hide her gift any longer;' but after that I'm not certain. I think they mentioned visions, indicating that this woman possesses magic or is blessed by the old gods or the new. Or both, if blessings can work that way."_

"_I don't think they do, Princess," Petyr laughed. Before he knew it, one hand was reaching out to brush through those dark curls._

"_Well, I believe they can," Sorcha huffed in response, though she made no move to remove Petyr's curious fingers._

"_Do you believe in both the old gods and the new?" Petyr questioned idly._

_A nearby door banging open hushed the two. Sorcha closed her eyes and leaned into Petyr to better envelop herself in shadow. When the servant's footsteps had faded Sorcha turned fully towards Petyr and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek._

"_Until we meet again, Lord Baelish." And then she was gone on cat's feet, leaving no sign of her presence except the faint tingling upon Petyr's cheek._

_When he was sure that the Princess had indeed departed, Petyr let a hand travel to the spot where her lips had lain._

_He had been kissed by the Baratheon Heir; damn all those who had insisted there would be no opportunities for him in King's Landing._

"Sorcha!" Tyrion Lannister's voice pervaded the room and brought Sorcha from her panic and Petyr from his memories. "This is a dangerous game you're playing and you didn't come to visit me. Not once!"

"I didn't see any reason," The Princess sniffed. She had stiffened at Tyrion's presence, though he was more of a brother to her than an uncle. At this point, the Princess had no tolerance for men snapping at her and telling her what she must do.

"Does one need a reason to visit their favorite uncle when he is grievously injured?" Tyrion sighed as he made his way across the room, "I also believe that congratulations are in order for you, Lord Baelish, for sleeping with my niece."

"How the hell did you find out about that?" Sorcha squeaked, losing her formal composure.

"Don't worry, Varys has two full coin purses. One for bribes, one for...well, you know."

"What of the hound? Why is Joffrey ordering me to personally chop off his head?" Sorcha demanded impatiently. She pulled away from Petyr and sat on the floor to better speak with her uncle.

"He is safe-for now. The execution has been delayed to prepare for _Lord Tywin_'_s_ arrival." Tyrion had spat his father's name like it was a piece of gristle.

"What? Here, now?" Sorcha continued, paying Petyr no attention as he came to stand at his place behind her.

"Yes. You can blame that one on Varys." Tyrion rolled his eyes and reached for Sorcha's pitcher of wine.

"Explain in full or else I'll force you to watch as I drink every last drop," The Princess warned, snatching up her uncle and holding him in the air above her.

"Your height does not give you the right to manhandle me. Put me down this instant!" he complained.

"You are family and we are close; that gives me the right. Now, speak before I start shaking you."

"You've been sold out. Start preparing your speech or else Tywin will wed you to The Master of Lies by the week's end," Tyrion sighed, "Now put me down and give me some wine."

"Drink the whole thing, dear uncle, you're going to have a long day ahead of you."

Tyrion paused in his pouring, an ominous feeling striking deep in his gut, before continuing in his motions. His eyebrows lifted high as he drank deeply from his cup and smacked his lips afterward. "So-"

"Princess, did you set it all in motion?" Petyr cut off Tyrion, holding Sorcha now by both arms and searching her eyes deeply for truth.

"Yes," she responded gravely, much to her uncle's displeasure.

"How long do we have?" Petyr whispered.

Sorcha glanced at the clock before fidgeting with her fingers. "An hour at best."

"What are you two talking about? What is going on here?" Tyrion's tone was just was worried as the other two. He didn't know what was going on but if Petyr and Sorcha had concocted it-well, he assumed it would be a proper shit show.

Both parties looked away. Tyrion could see Sorcha take a step closer to Petyr and hold his eye, as if asking his permission to speak. It sickened Tyrion and made him deeply concerned for his niece.

"Well, the time is ticking down. Out with it, if you want me to save your asses from whatever is coming."

Sorcha moved towards Tyrion and leaned into his ear. "I've poisoned the demon that has taken control of Joffrey. In less than an hour I will have assumed the throne."

Tyrion thought his stomach couldn't plummet any farther. If there were any more nasty surprises, he was sure it would fall right out of his ass and kill him. "I can't believe you've played into your childhood fantasies while planning something like this."

"Tywin will never let the marriage stand once the situation as accelerated," Sorcha paused to turn to Petyr, "I'm sorry, Petyr, but I don't love you."

"Love makes little difference in the world we live in, Sorcha, you know that," Petyr responded.

"When I am Queen love will become highly valued," The Princess assured.

"If you aren't hanged for treason," Tyrion reminded.

"The common folk both adore and know me well," Sorcha snipped, "and Petyr has the guard in his pocket."

"Yes, Lord Baelish has the guard; and what is it that you intend to do with them, Petyr?" Tyrion questioned.

Lord Baelish took a deep breath before responding, puffing himself up and calming his features. Sorcha knew at once that he was putting on his stage face-which meant he was preparing for a lie.

"They will assure Sorcha's ascent to the throne, of course."

"You're lying," The Princess hissed.

"It's a little late to doubt me, Princess," Petyr remarked. His eyes twinkled with pride and excitement. His plans were coming to fruition right before his eyes and even the Lannisters could not stop him.

"It's not too late to beat you into submission," Sorcha growled back.

"No!" Tyrion shouted, making a grab for the blur that was his niece as she pounced on her guard.

Petyr did his best to fight off Sorcha Baratheon though no hell could have a fraction of her fury. Her soft hands grabbed him from every angle, quickly darting away as he blocked and dodged. Her acrobatics training was paying off in full as the agile Lord soon began to tire.

"Agh!" Petyr cried out as Sorcha finally twisted herself around him, locking his arms fully behind his body and rendering him immobile. With a deft jerk she sent racking waves of pain all along his shoulders. "Is this the kind of queen you plan to be?"

"How do you plan on betraying me?" Sorcha growled in response.

* * *

><p>Tywin Lannister could hear a chorus of shouting from three very familiar voices. With a sigh, he continued down the hall towards the disturbance with a heavy heart.<p>

Once upon a time, he had broad hopes for his Granddaughter. Now she dashed them before they had a chance go begin. In his heart he had always been afraid that her strong will would be the end of her; now that that time has come he feared for her the most.

"Wait outside," Tywin commanded his guards.

"Sir," Liam, the taller of the two, interjected.

"I'll be fine," Tywin assured.

When he opened the doors, he couldn't help but laugh. Sorcha was wrapped around Lord Baelish with a positively demonic expression of fury on her face. Petyr, on the other hand, wore a mask of intense pain and tears leaked out of his eyes as he struggled and rolled along the floor.

"Sorcha!" Tyrion kept repeating, following the pair as Petyr's cries continued to punctuate the air. Every time he tried to lay hands on Sorcha he would either get knocked down or she would roll Petyr to a new position. It was the most absurd occurrence Tywin had witnessed in a long time.

"Alright, children, what is going on here?" he boomed across the room.


End file.
